Title: Kenneth Irons' Christmas Carol

Author: jazzmin

E-mail: redwyn@dreamscape.com

Category: Humor/Parody

Disclaimers: All characters from the Witchblade TV series are the property of Top Cow and TNT. No infringement of their rights is intended. All original characters are mine.

Spoilers: None. The action takes place on a mythical Christmas Eve after the first season, and before anything significant has happened in the second. (Note: Rolf Germer was Elizabeth Bronte's SS officer lover.)

Warnings: This is not your mother's Christmas Carol.

Summary: Kenneth Irons is visited by three spirits on Christmas Eve. Will they convince him to reform his evil ways? Or will Kenneth prove more than a match for the spirit of Christmas?

Kenneth Irons' Christmas Carol

It was the day before Christmas. Throughout Vorschlag's corporate headquarters, carols cascaded from banks of video monitors, potted poinsettias and plastic garlands brightened the burnished metal corridors, and holiday-clad employees clustered in celebratory knots, chomping cookies and exchanging gifts. In his penthouse office, Kenneth Irons looked up from the red and green DNA helix on his computer screen, and wondered how the two men had gotten past not only a bevy of security guards, but his confidential secretary as well.

Making a mental note to have Ian check the alcohol content of the punch that had been circulating through the secretarial pool, he turned on his usual bland charm. "Monsignor Bellamy. So good to see you again."

That disconcerted the elderly priest. With a glance to his young assistant, Father Petrosian, Bellamy stated, " I don't think we've ever met. Although I did have some brief contact with your, err..." Bellamy studied him. "your grandfather just after the war, when I was still at the Vatican. You look very much like him."

"I take great pains to." He laced his fingers together. "I doubt you've come here to reminisce. Is there something I can assist you with?"

Monsignor Bellamy drew himself up. "As you know, the holidays are a time when want is most keenly felt by the poor. Our parish has always contributed to a special fund to buy food and clothing, and seasonal necessities for the most desperate. But this year, I'm afraid we've come up very short."

"Is there no Salvation Army? No United Way?"

"Many of our parishioners are here under less than legal circumstances. They'd rather starve than go to an agency. We were hoping that you could make up some or all of the shortfall."

The younger priest joined in earnestly. "Our parish is in one of the poorest sections of the city. If you could only see--"

"I know where your parish is," Irons interrupted. "And frankly, I located my headquarters here so I would not have to see."

Monsignor Bellamy was taken aback. "Mr. Irons, you are one of the foremost philanthropists in the city. I can't believe you're really that hard- hearted."

"On the contrary, I have the heart of a warm and generous man." He smiled. "I keep it in a box in my desk drawer."

The two priests managed uneasy smiles in return.

Irons continued. "I have made it a policy not to become personally involved in any charitable endeavors. The foundations I support all have more than competent staffs; I let them make the decisions as to the distribution of the funds. On your way out, you may pick up an application from my secretary for next year."

A veteran fund raiser, Monsignor Bellamy would not give up. "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal."

He countered. "Those who would administer wisely must indeed be wise, for one of the serious obstacles to the improvement of our race is indiscriminate charity."

"In charity, there is no excess."

"Charity creates a multitude of sins."

"Where there is charity and wisdom, there is neither fear nor ignorance."

"Don't let the door hit you on your way out." He gestured for Ian to remove them. "Good-bye, Monsignor Bellamy, Father Petrosian."

As he was escorted to the door, the younger priest contributed a quote of his own. "It could be his head wasn't screwed on just right. It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight...."

Once they were safely gone, he contacted his secretary. "Inga, have you given a grant application to Monsignor Bellamy and his companion?"

"Yes, Mr. Irons."

"When they send it in, rip it up."

"Yes, Mr. Irons."

Hmm. She sounded sober enough. Dismissing the monsignor's breach of his inner sanctum as an aberration, he returned to his affairs. Only to be interrupted by Dr. Immo.

He was never going to get this genetic manipulation done. "And what do you want?"

Immo was undaunted. "Only to wish you a merry Christmas. And to invite you to dine with us tomorrow."

"Every year you invite me, and every year I refuse you."

"And I'll keep inviting you until you accept."

"You keep Christmas in your way, and leave me to keep it in mine."

"But you don't keep it. That's the problem. You hole yourself up in that mausoleum of a mansion, alone--"

"Instead of listening to your wife detailing her latest plastic surgery, while your grandchildren run about like velvet-clad kobolds, tormenting everyone?"

The Doctor was unperturbed. "I came here in the spirit of good will, and I won't let you dampen it. A Merry Christmas to you. And a Happy New Year." Pausing at the door. "And a Merry Christmas to you too, Ian."

His bodyguard answered disloyally, "Merry Christmas, Doctor."

Glaring after the departing Immo, Irons declared, "If I could work my will, every idiot who goes around babbling 'Merry Christmas' would be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart." He returned to his computer screen.

A dark shadow glided past.

"I was only voicing an opinion!"

Ian halted in mid-stride. And returned to his customary place against the wall.

He glared at his dark-clad servant. "Speaking of those demented by holiday cheer, I suppose you'll want all day off tomorrow as usual?"

Ian did not raise his head. "If it's convenient."

"It's not convenient. And it's not fair. My life doesn't stop because you feel the need to celebrate Christmas."

"It is only once a year."

"As though that excuses it."

It was the season of traditions. This was theirs. He remained silent long enough to emphasize his displeasure before saying sourly, "Very well. But be here all the earlier the next morning."

Ian's head went a notch lower. "It's more than generous of you, sir."

"Yes, I know it is. You don't have to tell me."

Actually, if the truth were told--and it was highly unlikely to be told by him--he did not regret Ian's absence in the least. It was his custom to spend Christmas totally alone, giving his regular staff the day off, and retaining only a skeleton security crew. He had begun the practice as a protest against the insanity that overcame the rest of humanity on that day; now he had come to relish it for its own sake. Totally alone, left to his own devices, he was free to shed the pressures and responsibilities of being Kenneth Irons, and just be, well, Kenneth Irons. On the ride home from his office, he anticipated an evening spent relaxing before the fire with an exceptional vintage and his favorite poets. And then, tomorrow, a whole day to do exactly as he pleased. Not, of course, that he didn't always do exactly as he pleased. Leaning back into the luxurious upholstery of the Rolls, he glanced at the window to see how much farther it would be until Faust Street.

And saw Rolf Germer's face reflected back at him in the glass.

In the next second, it was gone. Sensing his alarm, Ian asked,

"Sir? What is it?"

The window only reflected the Rolls' interior. "It's nothing. I...think I dozed off for a moment." Yes. That was it. A half-waking dream. But he could not shake the unease. Rolf Germer. After all these years, whatever had made him think of the man?

Just what had those secretaries put in that punch?

There was one more ritual to be performed. He was already settled in his chair, clad comfortably in pajamas and robe, when Ian came to take his leave.

He was impatient to get to his Keats. "Well? Get it over with."

Ian was decked in his usual holiday garb: black hooded coat, black gloves, black pants, and black army boots. "Merry Christmas, sir."

"Merry Christmas," he mocked. "And now I suppose you're waiting to hear me wish you a Merry Christmas in turn?"

"It is customary."

"Not for me. Christmas is a humbug--nothing more than a giant retail conspiracy tacked onto a holiday stolen from the Druids."

"May I go now, sir?"

"Go. I don't want you. Begone, before you feel compelled to wish me a Happy New Year."

With a last bow, Ian departed.

The wine was really quite good. He let it relax him, washing away the annoyance of begging priests, and the Doctor's dinner threat, and his seasonally unbalanced servant. He even forgot the brief, unsettling glimpse of Rolf Germer. Until he heard a sibilant voice whisper,

"Irons....."

It came from everywhere and nowhere. He laid down his book, feeling the hair stand up at the back of his neck.

A bell began to ring.

It sounded like an old-fashioned shop bell, tinkling again and again. But there were no bells in the room, none at all. He risked a glance behind him, then searched frantically for the button to summon security, a button he unaccountably could not locate.

A window banged open on the balcony above. The wind shrieked through it, blowing in the falling snow. And the specter of Rolf Germer.

It floated down the stairs from the balcony, a luminescent figure dragging a chain composed of massive links from which dangled keys, and combat medals, and iron-bound copies of Mein Kampf. The specter was clad in an SS officer's uniform that hung in tattered shreds, its greatcoat billowing around it on an unfelt wind. As it neared his chair, it stared at him with death-cold eyes. Enthroned in his chair, he stared back. And muttered,

"Next year, I will definitely test the punch on Ian first."

The specter gave a horrible shriek, shaking its chain. He gripped the arms of his chair. It really was Rolf Germer. Or what was left of him. As the cacophony tailed off, he mustered his courage. And managed to state with passable aplomb,

"Rolf. How good of you to drop in."

That seemed to disconcert the specter. The tattered folds of its greatcoat settled around it, and its chain coiled around its scuffed jackboots. As though from its grave, the voice came once more.

"Do you believe in me, Kenneth Irons?"

He picked up his glass of wine. "Do you mean metaphysically, as in, do I believe in spooks?"

The specter shrieked once more, rattling its chain.

"Very well, I believe in you! Just tell me why you've come after all these years. And why you're wearing that chain. Isn't it a bit melodramatic?"

"I wear the chain I forged in life," intoned the specter. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard. I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wear it. Is its pattern strange to you?"

"Somewhat." He sipped his wine. "All you're lacking is a few Hummel figurines. And maybe a beer stein."

"Would you know the weight and length of the chain you bear yourself? It was fully as heavy and as long as this fifty years ago and more, and you have labored on it since. You could anchor an aircraft carrier with the chain you have forged."

He gave a quick glance behind his chair, just to be sure there were not fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable encircling it. "How interesting. So you've been hauling that around since you died?"

"The whole time. No rest, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse! I cannot rest, I cannot stay. I cannot linger anywhere--"

"You're lingering here," he pointed out.

"I am captive, bound, and double-ironed for the misdeeds of my life."

"You were an SS officer, Rolf. Where did you think you would go when you died?"

The specter droned on. "I am here tonight to warn you, that you have yet a chance and a hope of escaping my fate. A slim chance and hope. A microscopically slim chance--"

"I get the point! What is this chance and hope?"

"You will be haunted by three spirits. Without their visits, you cannot hope to escape the path I tread. Expect the first one when the bell tolls one."

"Spirits. I see. I'm to be frightened into repentance by Casper the Friendly Ghost."

The afterlife seemed to deprive its dwellers of an appreciation of sarcasm. "Expect the second at the next hour, and the third when the last stroke of three has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more. And look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us."

He was actually touched--no doubt the effects of the wine. "This is remarkably good-natured of you, Rolf. Considering that I stole away Elizabeth, then killed you. Yet for all your sartorial woes, you've come here bent on my salvation."

"Not your salvation--mine."

Ian would win a karaoke contest before Rolf Germer was invited through the pearly gates. He watched the specter float back up the stairs. When it reached the top, Rolf turned back and gestured for him to follow. Thinking if he humored it, he might be able to shoo it out the window and put an end to this nocturnal annoyance, he obliged it. When he too reached the top of the stairs, Rolf gestured to the windows behind them.

"Behold!"

The sky was filled with phantoms blown on the winter wind like snowflakes, each unique, and all alike in their chains and their writhing despair. He saw faces he knew, many still clad in tattered uniforms of the once-proud Reich. The specters howled as they flew past, their wails merging with the shrieks of the wind until he had to cover his ears. It was--it was--

It was pretty much his past Christmas card list.

Rolf paused in the frame of the window. And whispered, "Remember, Kenneth Irons! Remember what you have seen!" Then Rolf too was gone, one snowflake among the legions that spiraled out above the city.

He slammed shut the window, locked it, and dragged a chair against it. Then surveyed the aftereffects of the visitation. Papers were blown everywhere, the dictionary stand was overturned...and the carpet was wet! Quite irritated now, he stomped back down to his chair. But the mood of relaxation was lost, so he abandoned his poets and his wine and went to bed, choosing the Renaissance bedroom out of the twelve that were kept always ready for his use.

He pulled shut the heavy bed curtains and settled himself between the sheets, Rolf's promise of three visitations dismissed and forgotten. Really. When you killed people, they ought to stay dead unless and until you summoned them.

* * *

He was jolted out of sleep when the clock struck one.

Clock? Who had put a clock in here? Thrashing free of the covers, he fumbled for the intercom to summon the housekeeper. Before he could locate it, the bed curtains were drawn aside by a slim, luminous hand, and he found himself staring at a being who was decidedly not Miss Dilber.

It was young. No, it was old. No, it was...it was standing there in what looked like a hospital gown covered with spangles, with a beam of light shooting straight up from the top of its head. Half-afraid some lunatic had gotten past security, he inquired, "Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold?"

"I am." The voice was soft and gentle.

Couldn't they have found a sheet long enough to decently cover it? "Who and what are you?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Long past?" Why was this sounding familiar?

"No. Your past."

This could get sticky. "Is it really necessary to dredge up what's long gone? What possible purpose could it serve?"

"Your welfare," the Ghost told him. Then amended, "Your reclamation, then." It extended a hand. "Come with me."

"I'm hardly dressed for an excursion."

"That is of no consequence. No one will see us."

Nonetheless, he insisted on donning his robe and slippers before he took the specter's hand. The Ghost led him to the window, which opened out once more into the wintry night.

He balked. "Couldn't we just watch a video?"

The Ghost laid a hand upon the breast of his silk robe. "Bear but a touch of my hand there, and you shall be upheld in more than this."

A current shot through the silk into his chest, then through the rest of his body. Before he could blink, they were through the window and standing on a country road, with fields on either side. The night sky had vanished; it was a cold, wintry day, with snow upon the ground. He looked around in wonderment, and saw a familiar lane leading to a grim edifice.

"I remember this place! I went to school here."

The Ghost smiled. And beckoned for him to follow it down the lane to the school.

They were in the throes of activity. The lane was filled with pony carts, and farmers' wagons, and the odd, backfiring auto, all filled with chattering, laughing boys and their trunks.

"The Christmas holidays," the Ghost observed. As he jumped to dodge a clattering omnibus, it added, "These are but the shadows of the things that have been. They have no consciousness of us."

He stood there as they went past, all the familiar faces, remembering each one.

The Ghost saw his smile. "You are remembering happy times spent with them?"

"No. I'm remembering that I've outlived them all."

The Ghost flickered in surprise, but quickly recovered. "The school is not quite deserted. A solitary boy, neglected by his friends, is left there still."

He was insulted. "I wasn't neglected. I was busy."

The road and the vehicles vanished. They stood now in a long, dreary schoolroom filled with empty desks. A fire burned in the grate. A tall, light-haired boy of about fourteen knelt before it, eagerly turning the yellowed pages of a leather-bound volume. He went to stand over the boy, regarding his younger self with some pride.

The Ghost was regarding him in turn. "You were not lonely?"

"Lonely? I'd been waiting all term to get at the books Old Snoddy kept locked up in the library. I turned down holiday invitations from two future baronets and the heir to a brewery fortune for my chance to peruse them." Fondly. "Old Snoddy never even knew anyone had touched them. It was in one of these books that I first read of the Witchblade."

The door to the schoolroom flew open. A adolescent girl darted in, and threw her arms around his younger self, exclaiming,

"Dear, dear brother! I've come to bring you home."

His younger self looked appalled. "Home, little Fan?"

"Yes, home, for good and all! For ever and ever! Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home's like heaven! He spoke so gently to me one night as I was going to bed, that I dared to ask him once more if you might come home. And he said yes, you should, and sent me directly here to bring you. And we're going to be together all Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world!"

"He's drinking again, isn't he?" his younger self asked.

Under her fashionably bobbed hair, her perky cheer soured. "Only a little."

His younger self detached her. "Now that he's run through all of his money and all of mother's, he's after the trust fund Aunt Tillie left me for my education. And he thinks if I leave school, he can break the trust and get his hands on it." Cannily. "He's promised you a piece of it if you can get me to come home."

All jocularity vanished. "I should have gotten Aunt Tillie's money! I was always her favorite!"

His older self murmured to the Ghost, "She was going to get it. Until they made the mistake of leaving me alone with the only copy of Aunt Tillie's will. I don't regret my actions. Fanny would only have frittered it away even faster than our dear pater. Leaving me to eke out an existence as an underpaid clerk working for one of Father's pitying friends. I couldn't allow that to happen. I had a destiny to fulfill."

"So you're not coming home?" Fanny was asking.

"No. Go away. I'm busy."

"But--it's Christmas!"

"I don't care a fig for Christmas. And frankly, Fan, I don't care a fig for you. No more than you do for me."

She glared at him. "Is this your final answer?"

"Yes, it is. And you can convey it to Father when you return." His younger self stepped past her to throw more coal on the fire. "Goodbye, Fanny."

The scene began to fade, Fanny and his younger self melting into shadows. The Ghost looked up at him, shaking its head.

"Your sister was always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. But she had a large heart."

"And even larger appetites. In her heyday, she could drink a Marine sergeant under a table. And I will spare you the fate of the rest of the platoon."

The Ghost tried again. "She died a woman, and had, I think, children?"

"One child. And she's not dead; she's a senile nonagenarian dribbling in a nursing home in West Chester. On the rare occasions when I visit her, she thinks I'm her grandson. I usually send Ian to look in on her--she thinks he's the dog."

The Ghost was nonplussed. The light streaming out of the top of its head flickered, as though experiencing a short of some kind. It recovered, and gestured with one bare arm.

"Do you know this scene, Eben--er, Kenneth Irons?"

He did indeed. It was the officers' club in the Rue St. Jacques, and it was packed with Allied officers and the newly liberated inhabitants of the city. They were all well-lubricated with wine hidden from the German occupiers, celebrating as Al Bowly crooned from a creaky old gramophone and decorations cut from anti-Nazi leaflets fluttered overhead. He saw himself glide by with a redhead from the Paris Opera, his height and his impeccable uniform standing out amid the throngs jamming the smoky room.

"That was a Christmas on which you were quite merry indeed."

"Of course I was merry. I had a beautiful woman to take to my bed, I wasn't being chewed up by Panzers in the Ardennes, and I had just located a cache of paintings the Germans had neglected to send back to Berlin before their retreat. I was so merry, in fact, I sprang for the wine."

The Ghost kept trying. "A small matter, to make these silly folks so full of gratitude."

"I'm not miserly, I'm evil."

"Nonetheless, your generosity brought them a great deal of pleasure."

"And even more to the dancer, later." Reminiscing, "Now that's an evening I wouldn't mind reliving--"

The Ghost hastily changed the scene.

He was still in uniform, but this time he was in a hastily converted office in the British Sector. Two women, official representatives of their government, faced him across the desk; Rolf Germer, clad now in a civilian suit, sat to one side, ostensibly as a translator, although he himself spoke several languages perfectly. With the smooth charm he had by then perfected, he was assuring the women,

"It is the policy of the Allied Occupational Forces to make every effort to recover and return all stolen art works to their rightful owners. But you understand, with so many records destroyed, and with so many owners dead or otherwise unaccounted for, we have to proceed cautiously. And we haven't located even a tenth of what was stolen." He gathered together the papers they had presented. "I have the descriptions of the missing articles, and your provenances. If any items on this list do turn up, my office will contact you immediately."

Reassured, the two women left. And he and Rolf exchanged knowing looks.

"You seemed very confident their missing art treasures would be located," the Ghost observed.

"Of course I was confident. Rolf and I already had several of them in our possession." Nostalgically. "He was an invaluable resource. Not only did he still have his SS connections, but he was the son of an industrialist. We had a short, but profitable collaboration."

"You were entrusted with returning art and precious objects stolen by the Nazis to their rightful owners."

"And who were they? Most of them were dead, and their survivors without any documentation or means of proving who they were. And those were desperate times--they'd more than likely have traded away a Monet or a Van Gogh for food. Why should some fourth cousin twice removed have more right to the spoils than I?"

"Surely their governments--"

"You don't get many politicians and bureaucrats up there, do you? I can guarantee you that none of the repatriated art would ever have found its way to the survivors. It would either have ended up in some state-run museum, or more likely, in someone else's private collection. At least I did return a few small things here and there."

"Only a few. You and Rolf did very well after the war. You began Vorschlag Industries, and quickly built it up out of the postwar ruins. Rolf even became your friend. Until the Witchblade came between you."

"Actually, what came between us was a sunken car full of gold at the bottom of an Austrian lake. Rolf had no objection to my courting Elizabeth--she had already left him to go back to America. And he never understood what the Witchblade was, or why I was intent on possessing it. That was probably why we got along so well. But he could not agree with my estimate of how the gold should be divided." Matter-of-factly. "In the end, my estimate prevailed."

"And what of her estimate?" the Ghost asked.

The scene was changing. He stood in a well-tailored suit, in the lobby of one of Paris's most fashionable hotels, its gilt furnishings decorated discreetly for the holiday. And Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth, sat gazing up at him with sorrow and regret as she said,

"You must see that I am right, Kenneth. Another idol has displaced me, and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve."

He remembered that moment. And that suit. But not that dialogue. "She never said that."

His other self was speaking. "What idol has displaced you?"

"And I never said that!"

Elizabeth answered, "A golden one."

"This is the even-handed dealing of the world!" his other self was spouting. "There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty. And there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!"

Elizabeth held a hand to her heart. "You fear the world too much. All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion, gain, engrosses you--"

"SHE NEVER SAID THAT!"

The Ghost jumped back as he descended upon it, its light sputtering in fear.

"Where are you coming up with this fiction? She never said any of those words, and neither did I!" As it quailed before his fury, he demanded, "What's going on here? And what are you hiding behind that hospital gown? Is that a script?"

The light exploded with an incongruous squeak. He was engulfed in a whirlwind of images, all of them from his past, all swirling by too fast to comprehend. He shielded his face with his hands.

When he lowered them, he found himself back in the Renaissance bedroom, only quiet and darkness surrounding him. The Ghost of Christmas Past had vanished.

He couldn't sleep here. With a muttered curse upon Rolf's decomposing head, he removed himself to the Victorian room, seeking the security of its massive furniture and heavy velvet bed curtains. He snuggled down into the featherbed, and made a mental note to have an exorcist added to his on-call staff. Then he drifted off to sleep picturing Rolf roasting on the eternal fires, with himself gleefully tossing on more volumes of Mein Kampf.

* * *

He was awakened by a clock striking two.

There was a clock in this room; as soon as he extricated himself from the morass of goose down, it would be a pile of disembodied gears and kindling. The fact that Daniel Webster had once owned it would not save it. He wrenched open the curtains. And was immediately blinded by what appeared to be a small sun ignited in a corner of the room.

He shielded his eyes, blinking. Gradually, he ascertained that the room was not on fire. Rather, it had undergone a hideous transformation. The walls and the ceiling were hung with garlands of holly, mistletoe, and ivy, all of them wound with strings of lights blinking out of sequence. Tinsel dripped from every protuberance, and the mantle boasted an astonishing array of stockings that had to be made of asbestos to survive the roaring blaze leaping out from between the andirons. But these were not the worst of the horrors. Heaped upon the floor were piles of turkeys, and geese, and great joints of beef, and wreaths of sausages. Topping the piles were pies; mince pies, pumpkin pies, apple pies; and plum puddings; and roasted chestnuts; and gingerbread men; and enough candy canes to repave Broadway. And in the center of the piles was a huge, steaming bowl of punch, perfuming the whole room with alcoholic fervor.

He stood frozen. What was this? Was he being attacked now by caterers? He couldn't recall any recent issues with caterers; his social events supported droves of them quite nicely. Flinching before the apparent wrath of food preparation professionals, he squeezed between the piles of comestibles. And saw, seated upon a pathetically inadequate fainting couch, a spirit roughly the size of the Silver Ghost in the garages below.

Alarm chased away apprehension. "That's a priceless antique! Mary Lincoln fainted upon that couch!"

"It's all ectoplasm." The spirit thumped its enormous belly. "Come in, and know me better, man!"

"I'm already in," he snapped. "This is my room. And my house. And who or what are you?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the spirit. "Look upon me!"

"It's impossible not to."

The spirit was clothed in a simple, deep green robe bordered with white fur. The garment hung so loosely upon it that its chest was bare, giving it the appearance of a nightmare from a lingerie catalogue. Its feet were also bare, and its head was wreathed with holly set with icicles. Dark brown curls flowed freely over its shoulders, and its huge round face exuded geniality. Finishing the look was an antique scabbard girded about its middle, the scabbard swordless, and eaten up with rust.

"You have never seen the likes of me before!" exclaimed the spirit.

"Never. Not even off-Broadway."

The Ghost of Christmas Present rose, and the fainting couch emitted a groan of gratitude. "Touch my robe."

Afraid it would sit on something even more fragile and irreplaceable if he didn't, he grasped the green folds.

Holly, mistletoe, ivy, turkeys, pies--all vanished, as did the rest of the Victorian bedroom. They stood now in the middle of a squad room, one he recognized as belonging to Sara Pezzini's precinct. A Christmas tree had been set up in one corner, its aluminum limbs bent in places, as though a suspect or two had crashed into them. One side was hung with solid blue lights; the other with a tangled string of miniature ones that would blink spasmodically, then lapse back into quiescence. The tree's limbs were decorated with an eclectic assortment of handcuffs, origami-folded coffee filters, bows and ribbons liberated from previously exchanged gifts, and medallions fashioned from flattened foil candy wrappers, each sporting a face cut out from a wanted flier. Gifts piled beneath the tree were being distributed by Jake McCarty, who sported a Santa hat and someone's hemorrhoid pillow stuffed down his shirtfront.

On top of a filing cabinet, a boom box was blasting out Christmas music.

"WHO LET THE ELVES OUT?" Thunk-ka-thunk-ka-thunk. "WHO LET THE ELVES OUT?" Thunk-ka-thunk-ka-thunk.

Bruno Dante came roiling into the squad room. "What's that noise? That's not Christmas music! Andy Williams is Christmas music! Perry Como is Christmas music!"

The Ghost turned to him. "Do you see, O man? These are public servants who come into contact each day with the most vile and degraded members of your race. And yet they keep Christmas as well as any in the land."

He didn't care a figgy pudding how the rest of this lot kept Christmas. His concern was how Sara Pezzini was keeping the Witchblade. He left the Ghost still blithering about peace on earth and good will toward men, and wound his way through the merrymakers.

Sara was on the leeward side of the chip and dip table, presenting a haphazardly wrapped box to Captain Joe Siri.

"Merry Christmas, Joe."

He didn't know what to make of his present. "Slippers? Are you sure these are for me?"

"I heard some rumors you were thinking about retiring, so I got the ugliest pair I could find. I figured this way, you wouldn't be tempted to slip into them any time soon."

Before Siri could reply, Jake McCarty appeared, trailing a tinsel garland and an inebriated Vickie Po. "Here, Pez." He presented a neatly-wrapped object. "Merry Christmas."

It was a teddy bear clad in biker leathers. As she eyed it dubiously, Jake explained, "I thought he could ride with you on your Buell."

Sara just looked at him.

"Or, maybe not." Hastily. "He does kind of look like a desk bear."

"Good call." But she smiled, and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Thanks, Jake. And this one's for you."

Jake held up a set of food storage containers with color-coordinated lids. "Uh, thanks. How did you ever come up with these?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "It's weird, but every time I look at you, I think of Tupperware."

Her partner, Danny, was next. "This is for you." He handed her a package.

She tore off the paper. "A CD. 'A Bardic Dream' by--" She squinted at the back. "Con-choo-bar?"

"Conchubar," Danny corrected. "I heard him play at a club over by the old Rialto. I know it's not what you usually listen to, but with all the X-File type cases we've been getting lately, I thought you might like it."

"Thanks. I promised I'd stop over at Gabriel's tonight--I'll have him crank up, uh, Crunchybar. It has to be better than that retro-psychedelic stuff he's always got on."

Her gift to him was a book. "Oriental Sayings For Dummies. Just what I've always wanted."

"I wanted to get you something from your heritage. You always complain that Christmas isn't a Chinese holiday."

Danny thumbed through the pages. "Forewarned--forearmed." He shut the book. "Deep."

"Hey, if you can't talk a perp into giving up with the sayings of Confucius, you can always throw the book at him."

"Ha ha."

At that moment, the booming rendition of "Santa Has A Big Butt" was abruptly cut off. To be replaced by the dulcet tones of Perry Como crooning, ""It's a Marshmallow World When It's Snowing'."

The squad room erupted in outraged howls.

Having seized possession of the boom box, Dante refused to give it up. "Hey, he's Mr. Christmas!"

Mr. Christmas merely drove everyone else to hit the punch even harder. The Ghost of Christmas Present hovered above the commotion like a green-clad Goodyear blimp, gnawing on a turkey leg and chortling incessantly.

Totally out of patience by now, he stalked to the spirit, grabbed the dangling scabbard, and pulled the Ghost down to eye level.

"I know what this is," he snarled. "This is your attempt to frighten me by showing me Hell. Hell is a small room stuffed with many large, exuberant police officers, all being forced to listen to Perry Como."

"This isn't Hell, it's Christmas."

"I believe I just made that point."

It tried valiantly. "During Christmas, even enemies become brothers in spirit. Behold!" It gestured with the turkey leg.

Sara and Orlinsky had arrived at the nearly-empty cooler simultaneously. Orlinsky twisted off the cap of a diet soda, and toasted her. "Merry Christmas, bitch."

She returned it with a tilt of her Molson. "Happy New Year, prick."

Vickie Po nearly ended up in the cooler with the remaining beverages. "Sara. Sara, I need a knife."

Hopefully. "For Orlinsky?"

"For the cake. The big cake." Vickie tried to extend her arms, and nearly went swimming again. Sara steered her to a chair.

"Stay here. I'll take care of it."

A local deli had delivered an enormous sheet cake, decorated with something that was either their rendition of an officer in blue, or a deformed Hanukah dreidel. Sara Pezzini looked carefully about.

No. She wouldn't--

She looked down at the bracelet on her wrist.

She couldn't--

Sara frowned, concentrating. At her unheard command, the bracelet morphed into a gauntlet. Her frown deepened, and a blade shot out from its back.

"NOOOO!"

Without a second's hesitation, Sara Pezzini plunged the Witchblade into the sheet cake, and began slicing neat squares, using the blade to flip them out onto little plastic plates.

"Give me back my blade!" He lunged for her, but went straight though Sara, the cake, the table, and the back of Jake McCarty. Despite being disembodied, he kept trying to snatch the Witchblade from her wrist, until the Ghost of Christmas Present interspersed its bulk between them. The room began fading; still outraged, he howled into the swirling mists,

"It's a priceless artifact, not something from Magic Chef!"

The squad room was gone. As he fumed, completely and utterly incensed at this desecration, the spirit offered, "They certainly know how to keep Christmas."

He just glared at it.

Hastily, the Ghost waved a fresh turkey leg. "Let us visit another dwelling where the spirit of Christmas can be found."

They stood now in the snow outside a home he recognized as belonging to his friend, Dr. Immo. The night was lit by a skeletal herd of reindeer nodding and bobbing on the lawn, their silhouettes outlined by multicolored lights. On the roof was a similar outline of Santa, his sleigh, and a final reindeer whose searchlight-sized red nose marked him as Rudolph. Due to the cant of the roof, Rudolph looked about to plunge onto the hood of the Lexus parked below, and take Santa and his sleigh with him, a mercy if it also succeeded in silencing the voices of the Chipmunks that blasted from speakers set under the eaves. Before he could pull loose the supporting cables, the Ghost waved the turkey leg again, and they were inside, staring up at an enormous white Christmas tree decorated completely in mauve and teal. A cherub in a green velvet dress and matching hair bow was driving her Barbie humvee around and around the base of the tree, grinding discarded ribbons, bows, and unopened presents into the white carpet, her little hand glued to the humvee's horn. A second cherub, this one in red velvet, was lying on her back before the cotton-covered fireplace, drumming her heels and screaming that she had wanted a Little Debbie Defecator doll, not Flatulent Frannie. And a third cherub in blue was banging on the keys of the grand piano with an oversized candy cane pried loose from the front door, scattering pieces of candy and piano keys into the cinnamon-scented air.

Immo himself was seated at one end of the dining table, trying valiantly to consume a goose that had had something awful done to it with ancho chilies. At the other end of the table was his wife, waving a laden fork as she babbled to their daughter through a face rendered stiff as taffeta by repeated tucks and reconstructions. Their daughter was carrying on her half of the conversation while speaking into a cell phone; across from her, their son-in-law was keying something into a PDR, his own phone tucked under his chin.

"I thought you were going to invite Kenneth Irons to dinner," Immo's wife said.

"I did. He refused, as usual."

"I'm beginning to lose patience with him."

Immo regarded the heap of mashed jicama with roasted garlic and golden raisins that weighed down one side of his plate, and looked about for some kind of gravy. "You shouldn't be angry, dearest. Because of his quirks about Christmas, he's missing out on this delightful dinner." Giving up, Immo dumped the rest of the macadamia mole sauce onto the jicama.

Another cell phone rang. Without missing a beat of babble, his wife fished hers out and went on with her tale of her latest surgical procedure. As Immo toyed now with the sweet potato and sardine sushi, the youngest cherub, the pink velvet-clad one who had been quietly removing all the ornaments from the bottom limbs of the tree and hanging them on the dog, tugged at his sleeve.

Somehow, Immo managed a smile. "What is it, honey?"

She looked to the other end of the table, then back up at him, her eyes wide and solemn. "Grandma looks like Michael Jackson."

As the horrifying truth of that innocent observation spread across Immo's features, Irons turned to the Ghost of Christmas Present, and said,

"I think we've seen enough joy and happiness here. And to think I could have shared this with them."

"There is one more scene I must show you. One close to your heart."

"The only thing close to my heart is my lungs."

The Ghost just beamed all the more heartily, and waved the half-gnawed turkey leg. "Behold! Here is a dwelling of more modest size and circumstance. Yet the spirit of Christmas burns as brightly within its walls as it does here."

"The only thing burning here is the Flatulent Frannie doll the little kobold threw into the fireplace."

Immo's happy dwelling vanished. They stood now on a nondescript street of single-family houses crammed eave-to-eave in one of the nondescript communities that ringed the city proper. On that street, each tiny scrap of yard was zealously marked out by a wrought-metal fence expressing the owner's aesthetic sense. The Ghost led him to one fashioned in vaguely Celtic knotwork, its bars wound about with plastic green garlands and icicle lights. The small stoop boasted two fake marble lions decked out in matching wreaths studded with tiny flags, British on the left, Scottish on the right. The doorbell appeared to be fashioned in a likeness of the Queen; a kind of morbid curiosity led Irons to wonder if it would play "Rule Britannia" or "It's A Marshmallow World When It's Snowing." But with a blink, they were through the door and into the small living room.

One corner was taken up by a tree whose branches sagged under ornaments of every variety known to man, many of them mercifully hidden by the yards and yards of garland wound like support bandages around its girth. A star the size of a small nova wobbled precariously on top; a man on a stepladder was trying to straighten it before the tree succeeded in strangling him in turn. More knickknacks covered every available surface in the room; the arms and backs of the overstuffed chairs were covered with lace antimacassars and doilies. Feeling like he was trapped in a gingerbread house, he waited for the Wicked Witch to appear with an armload of candy to tempt Hansel and Gretel.

Instead, in came his own Miss Dilber with a tray of tiny wieners and cheesy puffs.

Another familiar voice called from the kitchen in a rasping Cockney accent. "Martha, where are the little pickles?"

"They're at the back of the fridge."

In another moment, the oldest member of his domestic staff, his self-styled Laundress Emeritus, came trudging out with the jar. "I was going to put them in that nice crystal dish we won at bingo, but then I thought I'd use it for the hard sauce for the pudding. We can just eat them out of the jar, can't we?"

Miss Dilber was a consummate professional. "No, we cannot!"

The tree gave a last shudder, and disgorged Parsons, head of his security personnel. Brushing pine needles from his military-style sweater, Parsons asked, "What difference does it make if they're in a dish or a jar? They eat just as fast."

Miss Dilber had not been born and raised in Edinburgh for nothing. "It makes all the difference in the world. This is Christmas, not Guy Fawkes Day."

Parsons just grinned. "Same difference over at Immo's house."

Miss Dilber had another concern. "He's late. I've never known him to be this late before."

"Maybe he's just taking his time walking from the train."

Beryl bustled back in with the properly presented pickles. "I've known him to walk with a .50 caliber Christensen Carbon Ranger sniper rifle--with a Schmidt and Bender riflescope!--very fast indeed."

Parsons was unimpressed. "That model's got the lightweight alloy barrel."

"As well as carrying the one he shot with it!"

He conceded defeat.

Beryl stomped to the front window, peering over the electric candles. After a bit, she exclaimed, "Here he is! Look, Martha, it's our Ian."

Their Ian?

The door opened, admitting the one he had always assumed was his Ian, carrying a battered red poinsettia. "I'm sorry I'm late. I ended up going all over looking for these."

Glaring at Ian, he snarled, "What, couldn't you find any black ones?"

Ian's arrival brought two more of his staff out from the kitchen, Fiona McAlpin, the custodian of his rare manuscripts, and Horace Alvord, his primary driver, the latter sporting an apron over his chauffeur's uniform.

"You should see the goose!" Alvord told Ian. "It's even bigger than last year's. And such a pudding!"

"Did you make your Christmas pudding?" Ian asked Beryl.

"Even better," she beamed. "I got Entenmanns's!"

This was painfully like watching one of the Edwardian dramas on Masterpiece Theater. "Christmas below stairs. How touching."

Somehow, the Ghost had acquired a double handful of cheesy puffs. "This household is far less fortunate than the previous one. Yet they too keep Christmas in a true fellowship of spirit."

Miss Dilber brought out another tray of the puffs. And reminisced, "I remember these used to be Robeson's favorites. He could eat a whole tray by himself."

Beryl too grew nostalgic. "Now, he was a butler, was Robeson. Mr. Irons thought the world of him. Right up until he dropped that Meissen shepherdess."

Fiona shook her head. "Mr. Irons is ever so fond of his Meissen."

Miss Dilber laid a hand on Ian's shoulder. "No one's blaming you, dear. You were just following Mr. Irons' orders, as do we all. I'm sure Robeson appreciated the care you took with him. He was always one for things being done properly."

Parsons finished the tiny wieners. "That was one of your best. And you weren't much more than a nipper then."

Alvord chimed in. "There wasn't much to cart away at all. I appreciated that."

"And then there was Yvette." Fiona nibbled daintily on a pickle. "She always did such lovely seasonal things with Mrs. Irons. Like the little flags and the sparklers for the Fourth of July."

Parsons was unsympathetic. "I told her to take those Mickey Mouse ears off her before Irons got home."

"I thought they suited her," Ian declared. "But you know Irons."

Yes, they did. With much tsking, and shaking of heads, they commiserated with each other. Until Miss Dilber declared dinner was ready, and they crowded around the table set up in the dining nook.

He was still steaming over their presumption that they could comprehend his thoughts and actions, when Ian stood up and raised his glass.

"Since it's my turn to give the toast this year, I give you Kenneth Irons, the founder of the feast."

The table erupted in commotion. "Founder of the feast," Beryl sputtered. "I wish I had him here now. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast on."

"It's Christmas."

"And it's only on Christmas that I'd drink the health of such a hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Irons. You know he is, Ian. No one knows it better than you, poor fellow."

"We're all here because of him," Ian reminded her. "Surely that's worth a toast."

"And there'd be a few more of us here if it wasn't for Mr. Irons," Beryl stated darkly.

But he insisted, and finally she capitulated.

"All right. I'll drink to his health for your sake and the day's, not for his. Long life to him, and a very merry Christmas to him, I'm sure. And I have no doubt he'll be very merry indeed. He's probably out buying more Meissen at this very minute."

Reluctantly, they all echoed her toast.

Irons turned to the Ghost. "I believe I've seen enough. Can we leave the holodeck now?"

The Ghost was puzzled. "They haven't even served the pudding!"

He would bet his entire autographed collection of Dickens that this was the reincarnated spirit of Victor Buono. "If I held any opinions about Christmas before, the sight of my good and faithful servants stuffing themselves with cocktail wieners has served to fix them even more firmly. Christmas past was a humbug, Christmas present is a humbug, and as for the Christmases to come, well, can you guess?"

"They did toast your health."

"Only Ian was sincere. And I even have my doubts about him." He had never dreamt that Ian spent his one day off a year with this perverse gathering. If he had thought about it at all--and he hadn't--he would have supposed that Ian spent it dangling from the roof of some dark place, hibernating, until it was time to return to duty. "So he thinks he knows me, eh? I'll make him regret the day he ever decked a hall with boughs of holly! And as for the rest of them--"

The table was gone. He and the Ghost stood in a vast, empty place scoured by drifting snow. As it loomed over him, the Ghost of Christmas Present seemed older, its flowing curls now turned white.

"You look like you've been listening to Perry Como," he commented.

"My time on this earth is almost over. There is but one more thing I must show you." It gripped the skirts of its robe.

Two creatures emerged from beneath. Barely human, they stared up at him, a boy and a girl, their faces hideous and their forms emaciated.

"The boy is Ignorance, and the girl is Want," the Ghost began.

He stared back.

With twin yelps, the children scuttled back under the robe.

He turned his attention to the spirit. "And as for you, Victor--"

The Ghost of Christmas Present held up a gnawed turkey bone to ward him off. Unintimidated, he advanced on it.

"I'm tired of Rolf, I'm tired of you, and I'm tired of being trapped in this holiday nightmare! Take me back to my mansion, or I'll hang you by your own sausages!"

The Ghost was deflating like a punctured balloon. Afraid he would be trapped here, he grabbed the remnants of its robe, shaking it. "Send me back! Send me back, you ectoplasmic excuse for a caterer--"

The Ghost was gone. He found himself kneeling on the rug in the Victorian bedroom, strangling one of the bed curtains.

He had to get some sleep. He climbed back into the featherbed, but he kept starting awake, expecting to see Victor Buono standing over him wielding a Magic Chef catalogue. Wearily, he debated which of the remaining rooms might offer him refuge from the final visitation.

The answer came to him.

The Martha Stewart room.

He had approved its décor after staying up all night reading first Hannah Arendt, then Baudelaire. And had returned from an extended European vacation to find that he had indeed created the flowers of the banality of evil. He only slept in it if accompanied by a partner whose particular perversions ran that way. The domestic staff hated having to clean it, donning protective sunglasses before entering. Once, as punishment, he had made Ian spend several hours there, an act that had later caused him a rare twinge of guilt, although it had been rather amusing to watch Ian twitch every time he was forced to pass a floral arrangement. In the Martha Stewart room, he would be safe even from the hounds of Hell, let alone Rolf's attempts to reform him.

Leaving the lights off, he felt his way to the handcrafted bed, and slipped between the hand-woven sheets. And was quickly asleep, as visions of retribution danced in his head.

***

He was jolted from a dream in which he ran through a field of daisies toward a dirndl-clad Martha Stewart when a clock struck three.

Why couldn't they just put coal in his stocking? He opened one eye, and found yet another specter looming over him. Tall and sinister, it was shrouded in a deep black garment Ian would have killed for. Head, face, and form were all concealed, with only one outstretched hand left exposed.

He opened the other eye. "If you're trying to frighten me, I've seen scarier things than you in Ian's sock drawer."

The garment rippled.

"Let's see. Your predecessors were the Ghost of Christmas Past, and the Ghost of Christmas Present. That would make you..." he pretended to ponder the question, "that would make you the Ghost of the Christmas That Isn't Here Yet."

The specter's hand twitched.

"You're here to show me another collection of heartwarming scenes, after which I will have an epiphany, and a bell will ring because Rolf finally has his wings, and we'll sing Christmas carols with the whole town over a nice hot jug of punch."

The Ghost nodded what would geographically be its head.

They didn't know him very well, did they? He shrugged into his robe. "Shall we get this over with? I plan to work on world domination tomorrow. And then recatalogue my Meissen." He grasped the flowing black material.

They were transported once more to the squad room in Sara Pezzini's precinct. As before, it was decorated for Christmas, but this time no loud, joyous party was in progress. Instead, a team of men in drab government suits was confiscating files and removing computer equipment. Many faces were missing, replaced by others he did not recognize. The Ghost pointed to one of the small offices just off the squad room; in a blink, he was inside it, watching Sara Pezzini fill a copy paper box with the contents of her desk.

She still wore the Witchblade. He made one more attempt to pry it off her wrist, his efforts interrupted when Jake McCarty came in.

"Jake! What brings you down here?"

McCarty looked different. His hair was now styled in disarray rather than having achieved that state naturally, and his clothing was several hundred dollars more disheveled than before. "I had to fill out some last-minute paperwork. Something about terminating benefits and stuff. So I thought I'd come up and congratulate you on your promotion."

"Thanks, Jake. It's nice to see a familiar face."

"It was weird not seeing Dante and Orlinsky. I heard they even hauled in Tommy Burgess."

"Yup. They cleaned house. And I don't miss them. Just you guys." The gem on her bracelet glowed briefly. "Orlinsky can't squeal hard enough, and Dante's looking at three capital murder charges. Once they lost their protection, the White Bulls went down like so much hamburger."

"It was all thanks to you and Danny. How's he doing?"

"He's out on the West Coast on his book tour. I haven't seen him since he was on Oprah."

Jake grinned. "The Way Of Woo. Couldn't he have thought of a better title?"

"It's literary, Jake. Or something." She studied McCarty. "I can't believe you're going to be on TV. And as an actor!"

"Hey, you got me started, talking me into entering that Tupperware modeling contest."

"How did I know first prize was an actual audition with a real producer?" She shook her head. "Cops on the beach. It won't last two episodes."

He just grinned more widely. "I am sorry I'm going to miss all the fun and games. Joe Siri was telling me they're just starting to uncover all the things this guy had his tentacles into. He said they're even indicting some famous doctor for doing illegal genetic research."

Sara stared at the bracelet. "You know, every time I met him, he looked rich, but normal. OK, he was also a snake, and I didn't trust him, but he was always a charming snake, you know? He must be turning over in his grave now that all this stuff is coming out about what a real SOB he was."

Which of his competitors was she speaking of? Matelin? No, Matelin wasn't charming. Or even normal.

"I read that almost no one came to his memorial service."

"Can you blame them? Everyone he had dealings with was probably either at home shredding documents, or on a plane to some place without an extradition treaty. And it's not like anyone misses him."

Parsegian. It was a sad fact that arms dealers were pariahs in their own countries. He hoped that his future self had sent a nice floral arrangement. As for the White Bulls, it was no surprise that Dante had brought the whole organization down. The man lacked any subtlety. No doubt his future self would shortly take care of the Como-loving Bruno.

Sara rummaged through the box. "As long as you're here, you can autograph this for me." She pulled out a copy of a magazine that was normally hidden on a top shelf away from minors.

Jake reddened. "I didn't think that was out yet."

"Just hit the stands today." She opened it to the centerfold. "'The Boys in Blue'. Yeah, you guys were pretty cerulean."

"Hey, it was cold on that shoot!" He signed it.

"Thanks." She grinned. "I never knew you could do so many things with a snap-on lid...."

The squad room began to fade. He turned to the Ghost. And snarled, "Is this supposed to show that bad things happen to those who listen to Perry Como?"

The specter shook its head.

Its silence was becoming as infuriating as the constant chewing of its predecessor. "Shall we play charades? Would that facilitate things?"

The Ghost of the Christmas That Isn't Here Yet merely lifted its hand once more.

They stood in the nether regions of one of the malls that dotted the South Shore. On the upper levels, shoppers bustled in a frenzy of last-minute buying, driven to even more insane heights by the carols that blasted over the mall's sound system. This level, however, held mostly mall offices and function rooms. To his surprise, Ian hovered outside one of the latter, speaking into his cell phone.

"How's it going?" A pause. "How's he doing?" The answer made Ian's usually impassive features wince. "Another one? Doesn't he think someone's going to notice?" A second pause. "What do you mean, he doesn't care?" More talk on the other end. Ian sighed. "I'll be there as soon as I get out of my meeting. Just don't sell the shovels. And tell him to stay out of my closet!"

Shovels? Closet? What was going on? Why on earth would his staff be selling off shovels? And what meeting was Ian attending? Aside from a subscription to Hitman Illustrated, Ian had no outside interests. As Ian stepped into the room, he scanned the directory of events. And found Room 304 listed as "AA--02:30".

Alcoholics Anonymous? Ian with a drinking problem? He couldn't even remember the last time he had seen Ian eat, aside from those little pickles. With the Ghost trailing after him like a persistent migraine, he followed his servant through the door. And found himself in a meeting room containing rows of folding chairs and a dais at the front, where a man was organizing papers as he waited for the meeting to begin. Half of the chairs were occupied by various men and women, all average looking. Ian sat in a chair placed next to the podium, facing the group. When the moderator indicated it was time to start, Ian raised his head, and stated,

"My name is Ian. And I'm an assassin."

"Hi, Ian!" the group chorused.

"It's been thirty-nine days since I've killed anybody."

They all clapped. Ian lowered his head again, but the moderator said,

"Remember--eye contact."

Ian looked up, and continued. "I almost took out two of my former employer's business competitors. But I called Benjamin Wolf, my sponsor, and he suggested I meet him for coffee. We talked about how I need to let go of my compulsion to tie up loose ends, and how it was a self-esteem issue."

They all murmured in sympathy.

"I'm learning to let go, and just take it one potential victim at a time."

They clapped again. Ian got up, taking a seat next to a man Irons belatedly recognized as Benjamin Wolf, Parsegian's personal bodyguard. A slight, bespectacled woman got up next, and announced,

"My name is Mindy. And I'm an assassin."

"Hi, Mindy!"

"It's been exactly four months, two days, and fourteen hours since I killed anybody."

They all clapped, Ian included.

He did not join in. "What is he doing here? I would never have given him permission to join this Twelve Step travesty! And what was that about his former employer? He's always worked for me. In this future, is he no longer in my employ?"

The specter nodded.

"You're showing me this to give me the opportunity to change what will be."

It shook its head.

He hated dealing with mimes. "If I've cast Ian off to lurk in shopping malls, then I must have activated his replacement."

It nodded.

"Show me."

Confident he would see the crowning achievement of his genetic manipulations, he waited eagerly as the Ghost waved its arm. The mall disappeared; they stood now on the long drive that led to his mansion on Faust Street. Cars lined both sides of the drive and a swath of the grass verge, with more turning in from the street.

"What's this? Have I gone insane and thrown a Christmas party?"

The specter pointed to one of the trees that flanked the drive. There, nailed to the trunk, was a dayglow sign proclaiming, "Garage Sale".

Garage Sale? In growing horror, he followed the cars up the drive. Parsons stood waving a flashlight, directing newcomers to the lawn at the rear. As Irons watched, Parsons shouted at a woman in an SUV, "No, you can't park on the bloody azaleas! Keep going!"

The entire front lawn was covered with tables containing his treasures, each of them marked with a color-coordinated price tag. There was his Qing dynasty jade snuff bottle with the gold-rimmed stopper; his Bustelli porcelain figurines of the Commedia dell'Arte; his black serpentine Olmec man-jaguar sculpture; his German ceremonial cross fashioned from gold, and cloisonné enamel, and precious stones; his Paul Revere silver bowl; his Egyptian 18th Dynasty head of Amenhotep III Wearing the Blue Crown that was carved from granodiorite; his Au Pacquier gaming set; his 15th century Venetian calcedonio bowl; and his Meissen, his beloved Meissen, the figurines jumbled together on a table marked "two for five dollars". He staggered up and down the aisles, trying to rescue them and all his other precious objets d'art from his acquaintances and neighbors. Just past the rows of tables were racks and racks of his suits, shirts, and other articles of clothing; as he watched, Beryl came out with an armload of all- black garments and added them to one of the racks. Presiding over all was Miss Dilber, with Fiona McAlpin manning the cash box.

"Spirit..." He could hardly force out the word. "O Ghost of...of whatever. What is happening here? Why are they selling all my art and antiques? It's taken me an entire lifetime to collect them, and now...." He could not go on for a moment. "Now my faithful servants are selling everything for mere pennies! Why would I have ordered them to do this? Have I truly gone insane? Has the Witchblade finally taken its vengeance upon me?"

The specter pointed to the mansion.

He entered into rooms stripped of all the accoutrements that made a mansion a home. A sour-looking Alvord wheeled past him with a large, ungainly bundle wrapped in a blue tarpaulin, followed by other members of his staff carrying out paintings and pieces of furniture. In deep shock, he stepped through the doors of the great room, finding it denuded as well of wall-hangings and portraits. But his chair remained, standing alone on the ornate carpet. Wandering through the emptiness was a young man he recognized as Gabriel Bowman, the friend of his protégé, Sylvester Marcus. And standing before his chair, staring up at the velvet curtains behind which reposed his beloved Elizabeth, was the latest version of Ian Nottingham.

Unlike the older model, whose fashion sense tended toward neo-goth- assassin, this one was attired in an Italian silk suit, his face clean- shaven except for a tuft just above his chin, his dark hair pulled tightly back into a curling braid. In the midst of his trauma, he still could not help but admire his creation. No black army boots for this Ian.

Gabriel was keying something into a PDR. "I've got a buyer for the netsuke collection. And a couple of museums are interested in the Sumerian statues. But I think we should send the Guelph treasure medallion to my San Antonio branch with the Durer engravings, instead of to the Brussels one like we initially planned. The Brusselites have been making noises about stolen Nazi art, and how you should just give it back."

"Flemish," Ian said.

"Huh?"

"Flemish. In Brussels, they're Flemish. Unless they're Walloons."

"Uh, right." Gabriel surveyed the stark walls. "It looks kind of weird without all his stuff in here. And without him sitting in that chair, like the master of the universe."

Ian was now regarding the far wall. "The runway will go over there."

"The runway?"

"To show my collections. Spring and Fall." The intense gaze never wavered. "And on the wall above will be a large 'N" for Nottingham."

"Uh, right. Nottingham's House of Fashion."

"No. Just Nottingham. Like Versace. Or Chanel. One name is sufficient."

Something else was puzzling Gabriel. "Did you ever get things straightened out with that woman? The one who was insisting the Chihuly glass paperweight was mismarked, and that you should give it to her for two dollars, not twenty?"

"Yes. She is perfectly straight now." Ian unclasped his hands from behind his back, and ran a gloved finger over the back of the massive chair.

"Did he know you wanted to be the next Yves St. Laurent?"

"We did not have time to discuss my aspirations. But I'm sure he would have understood. He always dressed well, considering his age and generation. But it was time for a change." With a hint of a smile. "I was going to explain that to him. But then the old boy asked me for a drink of water. It was the last thing he ever said to me."

"That's too bad. I mean, that he died so suddenly. Did they ever figure out why he decided to take that late night swim?"

Ian just looked at him, the smile still playing at the corner of his lips.

For some reason, Gabriel was suddenly very nervous. "I, uh, I think I'll go see how the Sumerian figurines are doing." He left.

Ian regarded the chair for another moment. Then he took a price tag from his pocket, and tied it to one of the arms.

Irons peered at it. "Nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents? You're selling my chair--my chair!--for nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents? The cushion alone is worth twenty times that! And who is this 'old boy' you're speaking of?"

Unaware of his presence, Ian turned and contemplated the closed curtains once more.

Everything was finally penetrating his dazed mind. "It's me. They were talking about me. I'm...dead. The end of all my beautiful wickedness." He could hardly stand to contemplate it.

With the Ghost standing in silent affirmation, he said, "The White Bulls were broken because I wasn't there to keep Dante in line, and to ensure that my other agents covered up their activities. Without the threat of the Bulls, McCarty and Woo were free to pursue other careers, and Sara Pezzini was promoted off the streets and into the Commissioner's office. And without my firm hand to guide him, Ian--the previous, scruffy Ian-- renounced his calling, and will probably end up flipping burgers at a McDonald's. If he ever gets out of therapy."

The Ghost shook its head.

"Burger King?"

It nodded.

That was bad. But before him was a scenario he could not have envisioned even after a week spent sleeping in the Martha Stewart room. "And without me, Ian--the well-groomed Ian--has been unleashed upon the world of haute couture, with consequences even Joan Rivers could not imagine. To say nothing of his selling off of my Meissen!"

It nodded again.

He found he was shaking. "Answer me one question. Are these the shadows of things that will be, no matter how any of us try to alter our fates? Or are these only the shadows of things that may be, one of a myriad of possible futures?"

The Ghost did not answer.

"I thought Rolf a self-centered, Pilsner-swilling scion of the Aryan race. Which he was. But somehow, he has acted to help me, even if it was to help himself. He has shown me these things so that I may change them."

The Ghost shook its head.

"I'm not supposed to change them?"

A nod.

Shock was beginning to change to fury. "I'm not supposed to change them because everything is better this way?"

A nod.

"THEN WHAT WAS THE POINT OF MAKING ME SLEEP IN THE MARTHA STEWART ROOM?"

The specter raised both hands. And shrugged.

He stood there, boiling. Before he could decide which of them would be his primary target, Ian went to the control panel on the wall and pressed the button to open the curtains.

Dearest Elizabeth. Surely they weren't planning to sell her, too? Afraid he would find her wearing a price tag, or worse, those wretched Mickey Mouse ears, he waited anxiously as the velvet drapes parted. No, she was still there, unmarked and unhatted, smiling enigmatically. And beside her on the sofa, attired in a silk brocade smoking jacket and matching ascot, with one arm placed tenderly around Elizabeth's shoulders as the other held a glass of wine, was--was--

His scream reverberated through the room as everything went black.

* * *

He opened his eyes.

And screamed again to find himself in the Martha Stewart room.

He grabbed his robe, and used it to shield his eyes as he staggered to the door. Once in the corridor, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it, panting wildly as he tried to order his thoughts. A window at the end of the hall revealed the first traces of dawn. He stared at it. Was this the present past? Or the past future? Or the future perfect?

What day was it?

Feeling as though his wits were dangling like participles in the wind, he stumbled down the north service stairs and emerged at one end of the library. The books at least were still on their shelves. With trepidation, he peered over the balcony railing to the great room below.

His chair was still there. He could see its familiar silhouette in the half- light. And there was the little leather sofa, and the dining table, and the rest of the chairs and end tables. He hurried down the stairs and turned on the lights. All the hangings were back upon the wall, as were the paintings. Giddiness began to overtake him. He made a circuit of the room, touching each beloved object: his George II silver tea caddy, his gold and turquoise Peruvian ceremonial knife, and all the other treasures he had watched being carted away by Philistines in SUV's.

"They're back! They're all here! And I'm here--" He stopped.

The curtains at the other end of the room were closed. With a frisson of apprehension, he peered beneath them. And saw only Elizabeth, gazing in her usual frozen serenity.

"I'm here!" he repeated, cavorting around a copper statue of Shiva as Lord of the Dance, waving his arms in imitation of the god's posture. "I'm here, I'm here...and Rolf's not! He's not!"

He ran next to the room that housed his beloved Meissen, and said hello to each precious figurine, soup tureen, and sugar castor. This done, he ran, half-skipping, back down the hallway to the great room. And nearly ran over Miss Dilber.

She was clad in her hat and coat, and was carrying a St. Thomas souvenir shopping bag. "Mr. Irons! I've just come to borrow a roasting pan for our goose."

"Never mind the pan. What day is it?"

"Why, it's Christmas."

The giddiness returned. "I haven't missed it! The spirits have done it all in one night!"

Miss Dilber regarded him sternly. "Mr. Irons, have you been smoking those Oriental cigarettes again?"

"I haven't lost my senses, Miss Dilber. I've come to them."

"Sir?"

He was babbling again. "I feel light as a feather! I feel like a schoolboy! I feel...I feel like Alastair Sim!" He stopped. "Why do I feel like Alastair Sim?"

No matter. He left Miss Dilber still clutching her shopping bag, and hurried back to the great room. Morning light was now streaming through the library windows; he tripped up the stairs and threw open the windows.

One of the backup security men was crossing the drive. He leaned out the window and called down to him.

"You there! Boy!"

The security man halted, and glanced quickly about. Then looked up to the window. "There's no boys here, Mr. Irons. There haven't been any since you got those new Dobermans."

The words came flowing out. "Do you know the poulterers in the next street but one?"

He got the same strange look Miss Dilber had given him. "Mr. Irons, this street ends at the expressway."

He knew that. He pulled himself together. "I believe I saw Miss Dilber a moment ago. Tell her I've cancelled her day off. Then contact the rest of the staff and tell them the same thing. I need them all back here. We've a great deal of work to do to get ready."

His security man's expression grew even more dire. "Ready for what, sir?"

"For Christmas."

He shut the window, and went back downstairs to his desk, muttering, "An intelligent boy! A remarkable boy!" He took a sheet of paper from the drawer, and made a list, checking it twice. He threw down his pen.

"I don't deserve to be so happy." Then he corrected himself. "Yes, I do. For all these years, I've missed out on Christmas. I've missed out on the fun, and the possibilities. But thanks to you, Rolf, I've finally learned the error of my ways. From now on, I promise I will keep Christmas as I have been shown. From now on, I truly will have the heart of a warm and generous man!"

He opened the drawer again. A small, heart-shaped box lay among the papers and writing utensils. He patted it affectionately. Then, still smiling, he went upstairs to get dressed.

* * *

Several hours later, the great room had been transformed. A massive Christmas tree now occupied one corner, its limbs glittering with Svarovski crystal, and hand-painted glass ornaments, and yards of red and gold bead garlands. Poinsettias were everywhere, forming clusters of red, pink, and white, their displays echoed by blooming amaryllis bulbs set in antique china cachepots. Great swags of evergreens framed the doorways, and wound up and around the railing of the library stairs, and a ball of mistletoe hung invitingly from one of the chandeliers. Candles gleamed in the library windows; more candles lit the room from silver candlesticks and wrought- iron candelabras, their light softening the late winter afternoon. It was warm, and charming, and quite totally Christmas, and mere hours ago it had all been gracing the halls of Vorschlag's corporate headquarters.

At the other end of the room, the dining table was covered with a lace tablecloth that had been made for a former President, and laid with Sevres china and antique silver. In its center, a silver and crystal epergne reflected all the colors of the room, as did the lead crystal glasses and goblets that circled each place setting, reflecting the candlelight onto the lace in broken bits of rainbows. From his seat at the head of the table, Kenneth Irons surveyed the guests seated around it, and said,

"I suppose you're wondering why you've all been invited here."

He was met with a variety of reactions, most of them silent. His staff was silent too as they lined up and waited to begin serving dinner. Their sullen faces and hunched shoulders contrasted with the bright Christmas corsages and Santa Claus hats he had insisted each of them wear. Even Parsons was sporting a sprig of holly as he stood before the door to prevent the guests from escaping. His servants' demeanors told that he would suffer their petty revenge in the coming weeks; his limousine pulled up in the middle of slush pools, no tiny marshmallows in his hot chocolate, his Monet left askew on the wall in his favorite bedroom. But it would be worth it. Well satisfied with the scene before him, Irons continued.

"Before I explain, let me say a few words about Christmas. It is a holiday that, until quite recently, I neither understood nor appreciated. Then, something occurred that showed me the true meaning of this day we've all gathered to celebrate. You might say I had an epiphany."

As he stared down at his salad plate, Monsignor Bellamy muttered, "'They say that his heart grew three sizes that day...' They were wrong."

Jake McCarty turned to Father Petrosian, who was seated next to him, and whispered, "What's an epiphany?"

"I had always thought that Christmas was nothing more than a commercial convenience, a manufactured excuse to unload seasonal inventory that masqueraded as a liturgical feast. But now I understand that it's really about family, both our biological ones, and the ones we create with our friends and acquaintances as we forge our way through life. So I've invited you here because you are my family. Although some of you have no idea how or why you're related."

Sara Pezzini glared at him from the opposite end of the table.

At her left elbow, Thomas Gallo offered her a cut-glass dish. "Care for some cheesy puffs, Bella?"

On her right, Joe Siri laid a hand on her arm, and cautioned, "Just take it easy. We can't haul him in for passing appetizers."

Her eyes flashed fire as she told Gallo, "Make me a Christmas present. Steal a teaspoon."

As he eyed the pas de hate between his partner and Gallo, Danny Woo said something in Chinese.

Gabriel Bowman temporarily ceased trying to take inventory of all the objets d'art to ask, "Is that one of the sayings of Lao Tzu?"

"It means, 'The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog'." Seeing the blank look on Gabriel's face, Danny shrugged. "It makes as much sense as anything else going on here."

This was ever so much fun. He really ought to consider doing it again next year with the survivors. Well pleased with himself, Irons was about to go on when a sudden commotion caused him to glance to his right. And say sternly,

"Boys."

A card table had been set up next to the dining table. Seated on one side was Ian, and on the other was...Ian. In honor of the occasion, they both wore bright Christmas ties, Ian's bright red, and Ian's shiny green.

"He's kicking me!" Ian complained.

Ian was staring intently across the table. "I want the red tie. I called it."

"You couldn't have called it! You were frozen!"

Ian's stare never wavered. "I want it. Give it to me."

"He just kicked me again!"

Irons sighed. "Ian, you're older than he is. I expect you to make sure he uses the right fork, and drinks his milk, and doesn't kill the guests. And as for you, Ian," more sternly, "I know someone who's going to be going right back into the ice chest."

Ian scowled.

Ian took the opportunity to retaliate under the table.

Irons returned to his guests. And was met by a collection of stares even more sullen than those of his servants.

No, Immo looked happy to be here. When he had told the doctor that dinner would be simple, just assorted appetizers, then roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans with little crunchy onions, and plum duff with hard sauce--and that none of his family was invited--he had though Immo would burst into tears. Now, Immo sat at his left hand, smiling across the table at a bewildered Vickie Po. Happy to have given his friend a kobold-free Christmas dinner, Irons continued.

"I could go on at length, and I will as you're eating, but now I would like to propose a toast." He stood. "I give you the one in whose name we are gathered, who has made this day possible. In short, I give you...me." He raised his glass.

"Here, here!" Immo seconded enthusiastically.

Everyone else sort of snarled something. And pretended to drink.

"And now I believe young Mr. Bowman has a few words for us."

Gabriel glanced around the table, pleading, "Why me? Why do I have to say them?"

Bruno Dante raised his head from his hand, and snapped, "You lost the toss, Bowman! Just get it over with."

Reluctantly, Gabriel stood, and raised his glass. His face scrunched up as though in pain, he proclaimed, "God bless us, every one."

Irons smiled. "That wasn't so hard, was it? You have an excellent voice. You may lead us when we gather around the fire later to sing carols over a hot jug of punch."

New layers of horror crossed his guests' faces.

Miss Dilber stood near the service door, waiting for his signal to serve the main course. Directing his attention to the far end of the table, he said,

"Miss Pezzini?"

She turned her glare from Thomas Gallo to him.

"There is a full set of silverware at your place setting. Please use it."

He surveyed the rest of the table.

Bruno Dante was drumming his fingers on the lace tablecloth, alternately glaring at the tree, then at the cherubs that ringed the base of the epergne, then at Sara Pezzini. Sara did not notice; her attention was fixed once more upon Gallo, who was doing everything possible to stoke the fire in her magnificent eyes by offering her various appetizers and complementing her on how her shoulder holster went so well with her jeans. Unaware of Gallo's life expectancy ticking away next to him, Father Petrosian was wide-eyed but silent, having been told by his monsignor to just lie back and think of the poor box. Immo and Vickie Po were debating in graphic detail the quickest way to open up the thoracic cavity. Monsignor Bellamy was adding his own brand of jocularity to the gathering by praying with folded hands and uplifted eyes to the 14th century triptych of the Nativity for deliverance. Wedged between the two clergymen, Jake McCarty was staring in confusion at the bewildering array of knives, forks, and spoons that ringed his plate. Across from McCarty, Gabriel was insisting to anyone who would listen that the only Christmas record he had ever owned had been by the Troggs. Ever the inscrutable Oriental, Danny Woo was sliding ever so slowly down in his chair, undoubtedly hoping to slip unnoticed under the table, and then make a break for freedom. Ian was glaring across the small card table, fish knife in hand; undaunted, Ian was similarly armed and insisting that they were his little pickles and that he wanted them now. And Joe Siri was holding up his position as the senior police officer by ignoring the rest of the table and concentrating on the wine. All in all, the gathering was as far from Christmastime ideals of peace and goodwill as Timbuktu was from the North Pole.

He was definitely going to do this again next year.

Glass in hand, Irons leaned back in his chair as his kitchen staff began carrying in dishes and platters. Ah, Rolf, he thought, you didn't intend it, but you've given me back Christmas. I did my best to avoid it altogether. But I couldn't stop Christmas from coming--it came. Somehow or other, it came all the same. And it wasn't just found in a mall, or a store. Christmas, I've learned, means a little bit more. It's family, and what they mean to you.

And what you do to them.

He beamed at his guests as they started their feast.

Then he--he himself!

Kenneth Irons carved the roast beef.